Transition
by geriatricfool
Summary: Paris arrives back home after a mission. A vignette.


TRANSITION

Paris shouldered his front door open, his travelling bag in one hand, a parcel which had been left with the security man in the other, and four pieces of mail clasped between his teeth. Once inside the apartment he leaned back against the door to shut it, and winced as it impacted with a still angry and inflamed shoulder wound. The sudden unnecessary pain ignited a blaze of irritation, one of several which had flared over the course of his journey home, and he spat the letters on to the hall table, threw his bag at the wall, and slammed the door shut with a violent back kick.

The burst of temper made him feel a little better. Just a little. His shoulder had been hurting all day, a dull, constant throbbing ache which was not helped at all by being pounded against front doors, and the knowledge that it could not be medically treated and eased until tomorrow rendered equanimity very difficult. Tomorrow was the earliest time Doug would be back in the country; it was out of the question that he should see his own doctor, unless he could first find a convincing explanation for a badly tended bullet wound. He would call in at a hospital, except that his face might be known anywhere in the city. Too much risk, Jim would say, in his trademark bland and seemingly heartless manner.

And Paris would agree, it was too risky, but agreement did not help his shoulder tonight. Or his temper. He stalked into his sitting room, poured out a tumblerful of neat scotch and drank it down in two large gulps. Then he exhaled sharply, stared up at his ceiling and waited for life's outlook to improve.

It did, ever so slightly, and he took his second glass over to the broad picture window and stared out across the city. Lights were blinking on, few by few, as the gaudy red sunset faded to a discreet dark turquoise. The rush hour city traffic sounded its endless, muted, often unheard hum, blending with the unchanging and comforting soft roar of the ocean beyond. Paris leaned his good shoulder, and then his cheek, against the cool window frame and stood, wrapped in the quiet dimness of his apartment, gazing half unseeing at the familiar view spread out below. He finished his second drink at a more leisurely rate, whilst the scorching day cooled down below him into a clear fresh evening. With eyes half shut, he waited until the last streak of light had faded from the sky and all the lights were sparkling and jumping.

Then he turned away from the window, only then aware that the room behind him was pitch dark. Through long habit, he poured his third drink without spilling a drop, and sank, carefully, into his armchair, unwilling as yet to switch on any lights. The darkness hummed softly around him, and he nestled back against the cushions and set foot on the well-trodden path to what most people would call his normal life.

Again.

Tomorrow he would take the car downtown and wander around the shops, stocking up on mundane basic items like bread, and coffee (and more scotch probably, it was too dark to see). He would call in at the office. He would phone all the people who had left messages on his answering service, starting with his agent, telling them all cheerfully, should they ask, that the trip had gone fine, thanks, but it was always good to be back. He would do these and other things that a 'normal' person would do and, at this moment, it all felt as remote and improbable as would a trip to the moon.

Paris shifted position slightly. His shoulder was supported, the scotch was definitely working, and he felt decidedly more content than he had on his arrival home. It was really no different to any other homecoming from a mission, except for the fact that he was hurt; the injury was not serious, but it was enough to irk.

However, irrespective of his state of health, he always disliked this time.

He stretched his long legs out carefully in front of him, crossed them at the ankles. He was mildly curious as to what time it was, but it was far too dark in the room for him to see his watch, even if he were to hold it right in front of his eyes and squint.

He smiled slightly to himself in the darkness; had anyone been able to see him arrive home, nearly kick down his own door and then sit drinking straight scotch in the pitch dark, they may have been a little concerned for his mental welfare. Possibly it was a bit crazy. But no more crazy than anything else in his crazy disjointed life. He was still alive, which was definitely a bonus. He knew that it was thought in some quarters that he had some kind of death wish, or that at the very least he didn't truly care whether or not he lived or died. It wasn't true, not true at all, and he wouldn't be much use to the Team were it so. So, he was pleased to be alive, definitely; and to be at home, probably.

Despite the fact that he always disliked this time.

He sat alone, finishing his third drink, the calm traffic drone sounding distantly in his ears, his eyelids drooping. And then he took a deep, sharp breath. It would not do to fall asleep in the chair. His shoulder would stiffen and would ache abominably when he awoke, which would probably be at some terrible and chilly hour in the middle of the night, and his clothes would feel like embalming shrouds and would look little better. It was time to move.

Reluctantly, he stretched out his arm, screwed up his eyes against the glare and switched on the lamp.

His eyes soon adjusted to the brightness, which just as soon assumed its proportionately dim glow, soft and mellow in the large room. Paris pushed himself to his feet and wandered slowly over to the window again; he cast a last glance out at the broad vista of lights below before pulling the drapes across, shutting himself in with the peace and privacy of his seldom used home. It was, he could now see, 7.45. He was tired, he was hungry, he hadn't a clue whether or not he had any food in the house.

Oh, he was tired.

Bacon.

The thought pinged into his mind. There may be bacon in the freezer.

He moved stiffly, hurriedly, to the kitchen and investigated. There was bacon. Bacon was there. He put the grill on, put the bacon under, and soon that inimitable, that evocative, that always irresistible aroma began to surround him. Paris was suddenly more hungry than he ever remembered being. Paris needed that bacon profoundly, passionately. He cooked, he ate, he cooked more and he ate more. Everything else was set aside and forgotten in the utterly sensuous feast, all the more wonderful for being unplanned and entirely his own. He sat alone in his kitchen, licking the fat off his fingertips, sighing with pleasure and uttering the occasional hum of approval. A small smile played on his lips and he slumped quietly and contentedly, shoulders and neck relaxing, the empty plate in front of him on the small table.

His shoulder began to stiffen again as he perched on the hard small chair, and he pushed himself to his feet, turned to the counter to make himself a cup of hot coffee and took the mug back with him into the sitting room. There he carefully rearranged himself in the armchair, shoulder supported and legs stretched out in front of him again. He sighed, he sipped at the coffee, and then exhaled deeply and slowly. And, with his habitual awareness of his own thinking processes, he became aware that he had, just, with that deep outbreath, crossed the boundary line between that life and this. His first thought was not his recent escape from the EPR capital, not the acute, mouth drying journey across the city on the rattley jolting tram, the expression of everyday boredom and slight end of day tiredness which he could see on every face around him carefully maintained on his own; that was then, that was over. His first thought now was whether he admit to his team that he'd made no progress towards updating the water illusion, or whether he should try to think quickly, or maybe just blag it. He was the one who had repeatedly insisted that it was crying out for improvement, while the rest of them still thought it was fine. Time to put his money where his mouth was. How to shave at least ten seconds off the reveal?

It was the effort of thinking about it, in fact of thinking about anything at all, which brought home to him how tired he was. Ideas, images, problems swirled almost sickeningly before his mind's eye; the tram journey back to safety, his last show on the East Coast, his shopping list for tomorrow – he shut his eyes to block it all out and decided that he needed bed, and sleep. He shifted slightly, and added a doctor to his list of immediate needs. Tomorrow, he'd see Doug tomorrow. Then he could plan. There was no hurry.

There was no hurry! No second-splitting deadline. No literal life or death decisions to be made. Just a day to himself and some people to call and some shopping to do. Paris gave another, involuntary, exhalation, and with it the last tension drained from his muscles, from his bones; from his wrung out brain. He rested, chin propped on one hand, eyes still closed but the eyelids now relaxed, the tension in his face and jaw smoothed out and the other long hand resting loosely over the arm of the chair.

He savoured his moment.

When he felt himself sliding into sleep he knew he really had to move. Now, his every movement was a superhuman effort, and he limped, shuffled towards his bathroom, where even the idea of a shower was more than he could contemplate and he changed direction and made for the bedroom. Without bothering with the light, he carefully and painfully peeled off sweater and shirt, kicked off shoes, almost fell on his bed and pushed all the remaining garments off himself and into a messy heap on the floor. He pulled back the covers and crawled in, and then shuffled to get comfortable enough to sleep.

Tomorrow he needed to see….

Sleep had claimed him before any more thoughts made it through.


End file.
